Category Archives: yukata

Cunt, downstairs, has no friends. Please don’t let me be accused over emphasising this, he’s friendless. One or two people have been over since he entered the place like a smell a few years back, literally, one or two, but they’ve never returned. When there have been twats downstairs stupid enough to visit you can here this perpetual fawning goof-laugh before he subjects them to his out of tune/time anti-virtuosity performance on his fucking daddy-bought instrument. Such is his isolation, he’s always ‘in’, that he’s slipped into a make believe world. Whenever I’ve the misfortune to have contact with his fucking face, he’s always clad in designer dark glasses and a baseball hat, fully togged up in Hollyoaks Teen TV ad gear. Just pause to think about that, what can be going through his tiny little mind? No one can see him, only he, and if I’m unlucky, I. He’s truly deranged.

Something good must come from having to put up with such a cunt. It seems that something has. Today I finished all the initial planning to begin the new book; he’s inspired me to write another novel. If vengeance can’t be mine in reality, I don’t see why I can’t sabotage his fantasy world by creating one designed to off his. I mention this only because the extra workload may affect this blog on occasion.

After the usual horror of Sainsbury on Saturday, I returned back to the flat, unpacked my groceries and got dressed in my motorcycle gear. Usually I just wear a jacket, jeans and boots but if I’m going out of London on fast roads it’s time to don the leathers and earplugs. My sister, brother in law and niece live in Surrey and I was going to pay them a visit, for the first time in the case of my niece. Earlier that day, 9.08 to be precise, I was in the process of emptying my back when the doorbell went. With no time to lose I jettisoned the bum cigar, grabbed my Yukata (look it up if you don’t know) and belted downstairs to catch the bloke from City Link before he got back in his van and fucked off. On Friday afternoon I’d bought my niece, Institute, a babygro. It cost me more to have the bloody thing delivered next day than the item itself. So what if I looked like a bleary-eyed fairy stinking of cack at the front door of my flat? This was for my niece and I’d just undertaken the first of many vaguely embarrassing Uncle-related tasks. It felt good.

Suited and booted I got on my black bitch, I stopped at the closest garage to check my tyre pressures, then another further down the road to buy some flowers and fags. When I got back on the bike it wouldn’t fucking start. I instantly flew into a combination of rage and panic, I did what any self-respecting biker would do in such a situation, called dad. As luck would have it he was only 10 minutes away after having picked up my bro and his missus from Clapham. I got a jump-start and continued on my way leaving my family miles behind in an instant.

It was a gorgeous day, perfect for being on a bike; the air was still so no wind to impede progress. Once out on the A3 I gave it some stick. The bike responded in a goose pimple-inducing roar and before I’d checked I was doing in access of 140. To those that don’t ride it’s virtually impossible to describe what it feels like to be moved through the world in such a manner, to feel all that power underneath you, to have total control of your destiny, assuming some cunt in four wheels doesn’t do something silly, and it feels wonderful. When the going is good you can feel the woes of existence blow off you as you slice through the atmosphere, indeed, you actually acknowledge the process of relaxation, it makes you physically smile, sometimes laugh, shout, scream. As you pass other bikers on machines with similar spec it is the done thing for one to nod at the other. This isn’t done because of some sense of brotherly duty, it’s done simply out of a sense of understanding. Putting it frankly, one is congratulating the other on knowing how it good it feels.

I arrived at my sister’s house grinning from ear to ear. She opened the door slowly and I could see through the house behind her into the garden where my brother in law, Mark, was holding his daughter, my niece. Virtually pushing my sister aside I made a beeline for her. Mark wordlessly offered her up and, still in my gear, I held her for the first time. I’d like it made clear here and now that I am very well versed in aesthetics, if the kid had one of those faces that only a mother can love I’d say so. Similarly, if the kid was actually beautiful, big blue eyes, turned up little nose, full cut lips and the epitome of symmetry, I’ll so say too. Since she was born I’ve been somewhat confused as to how I was to react to the first new family member in 30 years. I felt something but it wasn’t defined or fixed, sort of like trying to remember a dream. It all became clear now.

My folks arrived with my bro and his missus and we all took turns to have a go on Institute. Everyone was frankly elated, Mark has already become a fully fledged expert on babies, he’s sensible with his daughter, not too precious but obviously over the moon, my sister who is still recovering from the caesarean doesn’t seem remotely bothered by the fact she nearly carked it giving birth. Mark told me that she lost well over a litre of blood and her blood pressure was dangerously low to the point there was genuine concern as to her welfare. Laughing caused my sister difficulty which was unfortunate as we were all on top form. Institute lay in the midst of off colour quips and comments, I believe I was the first person to say ‘fuck’ in front of here, I’m terribly proud of myself.

When it was time to leave, and after my dead arm had some life back in it from holding her for so long, I jumped back on black bitch for the blast home. Institute came out with granny to see me off. I hope the sound of my bike will go deep inside her psyche so that it unlocks something within her when she hears a large bike engine running, as it does me.

My deliriously happy journey back was complimented by a few pints in the local with Frank; I probably bored the poor fellow to death gushing about our new family member. When I got home I ate my favourite meal, sausages and broccoli smothered in a cheese and onion roux, which was made better by the day that had preceded it. I drank wine and got thoroughly stoned; I couldn’t wipe the grin of my face, even when I went to bed.

On Sunday I got up before 10, I wanted to do some writing before Myfwt showed up early afternoon. I had the usual kipper which for some reason wasn’t dissecting to my satisfaction, I’ve eaten so many I’ve got filleting the bastards down to a fine art, but not today. Still my spirits remained high; I’d every intention of getting on my black bitch and wringing her neck, just as Myfwt showed up it rained. Fuck.

The afternoon was nonetheless a triumph; simply it was sat lolling about in front of DVD’s with cups of tea and as the day passed to the evening, roast chicken and wine. The Sunday blues were held off… I’m an uncle don’t you know.

Can’t beleive I found this, saw this lot at The Astoria in the early 90’s, still one of the best gig experiances I’ve ever had, Jamie will remember this